The Grand Master nodded. “I shall.”
Jameela lowered her head to her husband’s shoulder and yawned.
“You are sleepy, wench?” Dagan questioned.
“Too much copulating will do that,” Neith said dryly.
“Or not enough,” the Grand Master chuckled.
“Take me to our quarters, milord,” Jameela sighed as she set aside the thick liquid in her goblet. “I need something to keep me awake ere we make the trek to the north.”
“You need something to relax you, wench,” Dagan responded as he drained his goblet then threw it across the room and into the fire pit. He picked his Lady-wife up and held her high against his chest.
The Grand Master watched his twin carrying his lady up the winding staircase that led to their quarters. “I will miss that poggleheaded fool,” he commented.
Neith put down her goblet and went to her mate. She knelt down before him and put her hands on the buttons of his breeches. “I will see that you are compensated for not having him here with you,” she said.
The Grand Master laid his head back against the tall chair and turned himself over to the gentle ministrations of his Lady-wife’s very competent mouth.
In the chambers above, Lord Dagan laid his mate upon their bed and leaned over to rip the clothing from her luscious body. His eyes were hot, the bold jut of his erection giving evidence of his highly aroused state.
Jameela crossed her hands behind her head and watched her husband tearing at his own clothing.
“We’ll need a tailor and seamstress to travel with us,” she sighed.
Dagan—as naked as the day he was born and as whole as that glorious day—threw himself upon his wife and began to take her mind from anything other than the thrust of his cock as he rammed into her.
“And a cook,” she said, grunting as he rocked his body against hers.
As she named off all the servants she wished to go with them—and some she wanted to make sure did not—her words were cut off in midstream for Lord Dagan Kiel covered her tempting lips with his own and sucked them from her mouth.
Epilogue
The brothers Kiel decided that Lord Dagan would take the Book with him to the north country of Cinerary. There it would be deeply buried in a secret place only Lord Dagan would know. To have it fall into the hands of one of the Brothers of the Conclave to be used for nefarious purposes would be disastrous.
As Lord Dagan, his Lady-wife and twenty-five of his closest allies made the journey to their new home, the first shipment of Sustenance was delivered on the tide to the inhabitants of Ordon. The ship stood well out to sea, the barrels dropped overboard, the sailors watching as Ordonese untainted by parasitic means scrambled along the shoreline to harvest the barrels of beef blood.
Prince Sekhem stood high atop a sand dune and glared at the Akhkharulian ship. Unable to wage war against his enemies, incapable now of crossing the border between their lands, his warriors were forced to war amongst themselves and rebellion was brewing in their ranks for only a handful of untouched servants remained in Ordon. The rest had fled by boat to Akhkharu before those who waded out into the waves were locked up and watched carefully.
Tracking one brawny servant as he plucked a barrel from the running water, Sekhem ground his teeth. Never again would there be a rendering of servant flesh in Ordon. Never again would there be a draining dry of a servant who had displeased one of his warriors. The servants must remain untouched so they could perform the labor required to provide Sustenance.
Reading his prince’s mind, Lord Uruku—he who took Lord Khnum’s place as the prince’s advisor—spoke his mind.
“What will happen to us when these servants die out, Your Grace?”
Prince Sekhem tore his furious gaze from the enticing body of the brawny slave. His hands were gripped into fists. “Then we will cease to exist,” he said through clenched teeth. “Unless those damnable barrels stay washed upon the sands when the tides reside.”
Looking worriedly toward the cresting waves that pushed the bobbing barrels to land, Lord Uruku flinched. Even the thought of one drop of running water touching his flesh made the parasite inside him turn.
Long after the last barrel had been retrieved from the shoreline and the Akhkharulian ship had disappeared over the horizon, Prince Sekhem kept his angry watch. In his black heart he knew his race would be wiped from the face of the land.
Only the sons of Dagan and Hagan would remain, the vile offspring of the detestable Neith Alal.
Knowing he had lost, Sekhem lowered his head and wept bloody tears.
* * * * *
In Lalssu Keep, Sekhem’s mortal enemy thrust the first of the new generation into the world. As she nuzzled her bloodson—born of Lord Dagan’s loins and not her husband’s—she smiled for far to the north she knew another bloodson was squirming from the belly of Jameela.
“Omair,” she named him—as was her right—and listened quietly for Jameela to speak.
“Altair,” Jameela sent.
Neith devoured the mess caused by the birthing then resumed her human shape. Cradling her newborn child in her arms she held him aloft, a present to the Ancient Ones who had made them a unique race upon the earth.
The boys were Bloodbrothers from the same father but from two different wombs.
And they would one day rule the world together.
About the author:
Charlee is the author of over thirty books, the first nine of which are the WindLegend Saga which began with THE WINDKEEPER. Married 37 years to her high school sweetheart, Tom, she is the mother of two grown sons, Pete and Mike, and the proud grandmother of Preston Alexander and Victoria Ashley. She is the willing houseslave to five demanding felines who are holding her hostage in her home and only allowing her to leave in order to purchase food for them. A native of Sarasota, Florida, she grew up in Colquitt and Albany, Georgia and now lives in the Midwest.
Charlotte welcomes mail from readers. You can write to her c/o Ellora’s Cave Publishing at P.O. Box 787, Hudson, Ohio 44236-0787.
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